


Five Minutes Alone With You

by Luna_Hart



Series: Five Minutes Of Your Time [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Archery, Betrayal, Character Death, Competition, Emotional Manipulation, Games, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, M/M, Major Character Injury, Missions Gone Wrong, One Shot Collection, One Word Prompts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Teasing, good guy Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_Hart/pseuds/Luna_Hart
Summary: Five one-word prompted one-shot stories featuring Brock Rumlow and Clint Barton: Confrontation, Hardship, Black, Competition, Landowner.





	1. Confrontation

Brock’s jaw clenched as a black rage welled in his chest. He strode up the ramp into the back of their evac, ripping his gloves off so viciously he felt the seams give. The blonde man, who was the target of his ire, dropped into a seat with a boneless grace, ignoring everything and everyone around him. A sharp twist of his wrist sent his bow unfurling with a snap in either direction, almost taking out Rollins’ eye as he moved to take a nearby seat. Only Brock’s sharp glare stopped the big man from causing a scene.

“If you don’t do something about him, I will,” Jack growled under his breath as he crossed the jet to help Blake get a wounded Gallagher situated. Brock sighed. Any other agent who gave him lip like that would end up with a fat one but he’d always had a soft spot for his second in command. So instead of busting Jack's face in, he dropped down across from the archer and watched as Barton meticulously cleaned dried blood from between the metal grooves of his bow.

A tense four hour flight later and the jet was touching down in Washington. Brock waited as the rest of STRIKE filed wearily out onto the tarmac. Usually Barton was the first one up and out, the man seemed to have a bottomless reserve of energy but this time the blonde hung back, folding his bow away with care. Brock waited until the Jeffers and her copilot exited the jet before sliding smoothly in front of Barton. “Oh no, you don’t,” he said as he physically barred the archer’s way, words soft but tone not giving the younger man an inch.

“The fuck happen today?” Brock interjected as the archer opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t know what your talkin—,” Barton began with a loose shrug but Brock rode over him. “Bullshit,” he snapped. Barton bristled, shoulders tensing as he compensated for the scant inch of difference between them. “I had it handled,” Barton said stiffly, something shuttering over his eyes. “I say again, bullshit,” Brock ground out between clenched teeth. The archer’s eyes narrowed. Brock struggled to keep his temper in check. People talked, ever since Coulson brought this bow-wielding former hitman into SHIELD. Barton was brash, sarcastic, and flippant with his own life. He walked away unscathed from missions that left other agents wounded or dead. He was never to blame, not officially. Nothing was ever this fucker’s fault.

Brock didn’t like him.

This had been his third mission with Barton and each time he liked the kid less and less. The archer was clearly a loner, sticking to himself on longer missions rather than taking part in any of the teams antics. Not that Brock really blamed him, not when Blake got out his stiletto and started playing _‘Who Wants To Lose A Finger?’_ with Rollins and Gallagher. Still, he’d just disappear without a word and they wouldn’t see him again till morning.

“We got the bad guy and no one died,” Barton said in a stiff voice. “Barely,” Brock snarled, hands clenching into fists. The anger he’d struggled to keep back was starting to bleed out now. His tone seemed to have a physical effect on the younger man. His fists clenched, his whole body going tense like he wanted to run. His eyes shuttered, going blank and far away seeming while staring at something just above Brock’s shoulder. “Gallagher got shot, twice,” Brock growled, taking a step forward, getting up in the archer’s face and forcing him to make eye contact. “Blake nearly died, all because of that sniper you were supposed to take care of. Shit, you almost took out Rollins’ eye right here in the fuckin’ jet! The hell is—.”

“There was a kid!” Barton roared, heat blazing into what had been vacant eyes. Brock froze, physically rearing back an inch. He waited as Barton clenched his hands around his folded bow, knuckles going white as he struggled to compose himself. “He had a fucking kid with him,” Barton continued, voice stiff and controlled. “Six, maybe seven years old. I had to improvise.”

“You had a clean shot,” Brock pointed out tersely. “You made a call that wasn’t yours to make and you put every single person on your team in danger with—.”

“No kid should have to see that kinda shit,” Barton interrupted with a snap.

The blonde swallowed thickly, throat rolling as something vulnerable flickered through his eyes. It was gone so fast Brock wasn’t sure that he’d just imagined it. “Gallagher got shot before I’d even made it to the roof,” he continued tersely. “I only seem hot headed and impulsive. I’d never intentionally put the team at risk.” Brock took a breath and then another, tucking his thumbs into the corners of his flak vest. Barton fidgeted and he noticed not for the first time how difficult it was for the blonde to stay still for any long period of time. That only changed when the man was on a mission. His body began grounded, lethal with cat-like reflexes. He was a different person in the field, not like this nervous kid who seemed to be waiting for a beating.

“Well,” Brock said at last. “I should prolly tell you off for interrupting a superior officer that many times.” He clapped a hand to the younger man’s shoulder, noting the slight flinch that rippled through the blonde’s muscles. “Come on, I’m gonna go badger medical and see if I can’t get Gallagher a faster discharge. We can get that bullet removed from your shoulder at the same time.” Barton pulled up short, so suddenly that Brock’s hand slipped from his shoulder. “I’m not gonna write you up, Barton,” he sighed. “You made a call under bad circumstances. Just next time, talk to us! We’re your team. We have to trust you to watch our back but you have to trust us too.” The archer nodded stiffly, shoulders finally relaxing as the made there way into the building.

"And when an agent under my command gets shot, I expect to be informed," Brock added sternly. “It’s just a through-and-through,” Barton said quietly as Brock led him down the ramp. “I packed it on sight.” Brock huffed an exasperated breath. "Fuck's sake," he muttered. He immediately felt badly for the outburst as the younger man got tense all over again. "Sorry sir," Barton said stiffly. “I'm not mad, I'm worried," Brock grumbled, hoping to whatever deity listening that Hill wouldn't force them to debrief today. He was getting a headache. "And relax, kid,” he sighed, shrugging his shoulders to get his vest to sit more comfortably on aching muscles. “Jesus, I don’t bite.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Barton muttered under his breath as he followed the older man through the warren of hallways towards medical. “It was one time!" Brock exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and startling a few twitchy techs passing in the opposite direction. Secretly he was pleased that the archer seemed to be loosening up, even just a little. "And I was cuffed to a radiator!" he added for good measure. A ghost of a chuckle reached his ears and he threw a glance over his shoulder, but Barton’s face betrayed nothing save a little twinkle in his eye. “You’re an asshole, you know that Barton?” he griped, tucking away a smile of his own. “Takes one to know one, sir,” Barton said politely enough, with just enough of a pause before the ‘sir’ to not be insubordinate.

Brock just shook his head, hoping he hadn’t just unleashed a monster. 

 

 

 


	2. Hardship

  
The entirety of STRIKE as well as a good number of the tech staff where there, standing out in the pouring rain as they buried one of their own. They looked like drenched crows, huddled together as the sky itself wept for the loss of the stoic agent.

Clint took a slow, measured breath. He hated funerals. He’d never understood the point. Rollins was gone and watching his body be put in the ground wouldn’t make the loss hurt any less. As soon as he thought that, he regretted it. He knew this was how most people, normal people, found closer. He’d always been just a little fucked up. 

Hill was there, standing soberly next to the priest under a large umbrella. Clint stood across from her, next to Natasha who looked effortlessly beautiful and dangerous, even with her red hair sticking damply against her forehead. Black always had been her colour.

It was hard to tell if Rollins’ sister Jenny was crying because of the rain but her eyes were red-rimmed and she was sniffing quietly. Clint tried to focus on what the priest was saying but it was bringing back morose memories of his own mother’s funeral and his skin was beginning to itch with anxiety.

It was raining even harder by the time the service concluded and most people fled as quickly as was polite. Clint lingered, watching as Nat slung an arm around Jenny’s shoulders as they began to shake. He scanned the crowd, searching for one face in particular and not finding it. He swallowed thickly. For all the man’s words, Clint hadn’t thought he would really not come.

As the service concluded, he caught Nat’s eye. She inclined her head an inch in Jenny’s direction, where she was placing a single white lily on Rollins’ casket, silently telling him she would stay behind. Clint picked his way carefully back to the road, hunching his shoulders against the rain. Slowing, his eyes caught sight of a familiar black truck parked a distance away, sheltered under a large willow.

He sighed, steeling himself as he crossed the road. He eyed the shadowed figure through the rain-splattered windshield as he rounded the nose of the vehicle. The door was locked when he tried it so he rapped on the window with stiff knuckles. The man inside didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Clint wasn’t what people would typically consider a patient man but he liked to keep people on their toes. He could be patient when he wanted to be, when it was important. He turned around and leaned back against the truck, arms crossed over his chest and ignored the way the damp metal began to soak through his jacket.

Finally, a soft click sounded from the door’s lock.

Clint said nothing as he hopped into the cab and closed the door. He dragged fingers through his hair, trying unsuccessfully to rake the damp locks back from his forehead. The other man still hadn’t looked at him, a hand sitting white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

The archer took the time to look him over. The knuckles of the hand on the steering wheel were scabbed over, two weeks now into the healing process. This side of the man’s face didn’t give away any of the trauma he’d suffered but Clint knew the other side was another story. Clothing hid the rest of the injuries; broken wrist, broken ribs, deep tissue bruising, internal bleeding that had since come under control, not to mention the burns and the concussion. It all could have been so much worse. It almost had been.

It was his eyes that Clint noticed the most. They looked lost, in a way that he’d never seen before. The man shouldn't even be out of hospital. He’d checked out the day before against medical advice. Clint had been sympathetic, he probably hated hospitals even more but now seeing the lines of pain that were etched around the man’s eyes and mouth made him second guess the decision.

“Brock—,” he tried.

“Shut the fuck up,” came the stiff reply.

Clint just sighed, settling back against the seat as the older man turned over the engine and drove out into the rain. The trip back to Clint’s apartment passed in silence. The archer really wanted to be surprised when Brock pulled up beside the curb instead of driving into the underground like he usually did, but he wasn’t.

It wasn’t like they had anything particularly special. They were just work colleagues…who occasionally had sex. The first time had happened after a rough mission that found both of them at the same Irish bar near headquarters after debrief. Too many shots of Jameson and a few drunken disclosures later saw them waking up with a shared hangover and a shared bed.

Then it happened again, and again. It wasn’t often enough that they were in danger of having to call it a relationship or anything equally as childish, at least not at first. It just kept happening. Then it started to happen when they weren't drunk. Sometimes Brock would stay over and sometimes Clint would cook breakfast. Sometimes Brock would make cookies, which Clint hadn’t ever managed to wrap his brain around when the older man could literally burn water.

It still didn’t mean they had anything particularly special.

The door locks clicked open again.

Clint sighed again.

“You gonna get out or do I have to throw you out?” Brock said, voice hoarse as he kept his eyes stiffly forward. He hadn’t once looked anywhere else. “It’s raining pretty hard,” Clint said, keeping his tone light and muscles relaxed. “Why not pull into the underground and—,”

“Get the fuck out,” Brock snarled.

Clint didn’t say anything, just looked at him, but that was apparently too much for the STRIKE Commander. The driver’s door slammed hard enough to rock the whole truck and a breath later it was Clint’s door being wrenched open. “Brock—,” was all Clint got out before hands latched onto his jacket and yanked him from the car. He stumbled, Brock’s busted wrist and ribs not allowing him to support the archer’s weight fully.

God, he looked wrecked. Now Clint could see the other side of his face, see the still healing burns and road rash that were mixed in with bruises, tracing across the man’s high cheekbone and around his eye before disappearing into his hairline. A neatly-stitched laceration wrapped up the corner of Brock’s jaw, a mocking simile of the scar Rollins had once carried.

“Well, that was stupid,” Clint grumbled, gripping the man’s forearms to steady them. “Now we’re both soaked.” Brock’s lip curled nastily as he moved to get back in the truck. “Brock, don’t.” Clint reaching out. “ Will you just stop for a min—.” His fingers barely brushed the man’s arm before he was viciously slammed against the side of the truck.

“How about you just fuck off?” Brock snarled, eyes hard and raging. “You’re nothin’ but a warm mouth, Barton, don’t think you mean anythin’ more!” Clint had to admit that stung a bit, but rationally he knew it was just the grief talking. He ignored the rain, ignored the few passersby giving them a mix of curious and concerned looks. He ignored everything except the man standing in front of him.

“He was my friend too,” he said quietly.

Brock’s mouth opened and then closed silently. That lost look began to creep back, just a little, before something hard slammed back into his eyes. His hands tightened on Clint’s jacket. “Yah well, you’re not the one who got him killed,” Brock said stiffly. “Brock, you’re not—,” Clint tried but the older man rode over him. “It was my orders the dumb fuck disobeyed,” he snapped sharply, voice so thick with guilt it made Clint’s chest hurt. “It was my mistake that got him killed so you tell me, whose fuckin’ fault is it?!”

They were beginning to attract a bit of a crowd, with more and more people slowing to watch the commotion. Clint desperately wanted to get the injured man out of the rain and away from the prying stares. “I don’t know,” Clint confessed gently. “But I know it’s not yours.” It was clear Brock wasn’t ready to hear that. “You weren’t even there, what the fuck would you know?!” the older man hissed, eyes rolling wildly.

Clint buried a flinch. He’d been reassigned at the last minute, something he was painfully regretting. When the word had come down the line of multiple injuries and one casualty, he’d had to wait alongside everyone else for the transport to land, to find out who they’d lost. The blow had been felt by all. The gruff second in command of STRIKE had been a favourite of many, quite in contrast to his standoffish brooding nature.

No one had felt it more than Brock.

He and Rollins had gone through basic together. They’d been assigned to the same team together, recruited to SHIELD together. Once Brock made Commander, he’d insisted Rollins be promoted to second in command. Brock had told Clint the story of how he’d bribed Jack to do the job with tequila, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him on a hospital roof with both suffering broken bones and smoke inhalation. They were like two halves of a whole, and now one half was dead.

“Just come inside,” Clint asked softly. “Please.” He waited, trying to ignore the way the rain was now slipped down the back of his collar and beginning to soak down the back of his dress shirt. He was honestly worried what might happen if the man refused and left, but to his surprise the fight slowly drained out of Brock until he stood in front of Clint shivering in the rain. His hands dropped from Clint’s jacket to hang limply by his sides as that lost look began to creep back into his dark eyes.

“I’ll have t’ park the truck,” Brock finally said, not meeting the archer’s eyes. “Gimme the keys, I’ll do it,” Clint offered, holding out his own keychain. “Go on upstairs, get dry.” Brock took the keys with stiff fingers, avoiding eye contact. “Fob’s in the centre console,” he replied gruffly before pushing past Clint and towards the rough brick apartment building.

 

 

He found Brock sitting on his deck, dripping wet with a bottle of bourbon as the storm rumbled over the city. Clint’s apartment was scary high with a view all the way over the city to the Potomac. The wind whipped the water into a frenzy and rain pelted the people who scampered about the streets like ants.

“You should dry off,” Clint offered but Brock’s only reply was to take a long swig straight from the bottle. “Dude,” Clint drawled, dropping down onto the low table in front of the dark haired man. “Mixing booze with pills, what is this, collage?”

“Not takin’ the pills,” Brock mumbled, staring out across the city. “Brock, the antibiotics—,” Clint tried but was promptly interrupted. “I’m takin’ the antibiotics, fuck. I’m not an idiot,” he snapped harshly. Clint said nothing to that, just gave him a calm look and watched as something akin to guilt flicker through Brock’s eyes. “Not takin’ the morphine,” he added in a softer tone. “Hate feeling like that.”

“Like what?” Clint asked, already knowing the answer but hoping to prompt Brock to keep talking. A quiet Brock was dangerous. A quiet Brock drank until he couldn’t stand up straight, drank until he got into fights and ended up back in the hospital with torn stitches or worse. Clint had been there too many times, picking up the pieces after a disastrous mission, to let the man spiral out now. Especially not now. If Brock spiralled now, Clint was worried he’d never come back.

“Outta control,” Brock finally admitted as lightning hissed across the clouds. A moment later an deafening clap of thunder echoed above their heads and Brock flinched, sloshing bourbon over his jeans. The hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle began to tremble.

“I missed it,” he confessed quietly. “Missed the signs, walked us right into it like a fuckin’ rookie.” Clint sat quietly, clenching his jaw so tight his molars ached. “I told him to leave,” Brock said, voice sounding choked. “I fuckin’ ordered him to leave me and the bastard just ignored me. Told me everythin’ was gonna be okay.” He got to his feet, just a little unsteady. The bourbon bottle swung drunkenly from stiff fingers. “Well, guess what, Jackie-boy?,” he roared at the storm-black sky. “It wasn’t fuckin’ okay!”

He shoved roughly past Clint and stalked inside, leaving damp bootprints on the hardwood. Clint followed, just in time to see Brock whip the bottle against the wall. It shattered with a earsplitting crash, showering the floor with glass and bourbon. The throw sent Brock stumbling, pain flickering hot across his face. Clint caught him just before he fell, to which Brock promptly shoved himself away and sent himself sprawling across the floor.

Clint stifled a sigh as he bent to help pick up the other man. “Come on,” he murmured, keeping a stern grip even as Brock pushed half-heartedly away from him. The archer’s sharp eyes saw the way Brock’s good hand was hovering protectively over his ribs and silently hoped the fall hadn’t caused too much more damage to still-healing bones. “Come on,” he said again, carefully hustling Brock towards the bathroom.

 

  
An hour later found Clint sitting on the couch, some mindless sci-fi marathon playing quietly on the tv. He hadn’t bothered with a shower, letting Brock have that while he changed out of his damp clothes. He’d made coffee, two steaming mugs sitting on the table. Now he was waiting. The shower had turned off a good while ago and Brock still hadn’t made an appearance. Clint was just starting to get twitchy when a soft cough had him twisting around and then leaping off the couch in alarm.

“I…pulled my stitches,” Brock said in a painfully small voice. His chest and ribs were a colourful patchwork of healing bruises, extending down one hip and disappearing under his sweatpants. What had Clint so concerned was the bloody towel the man had pressed against his side. “I’ll get the kit,” Clint said, pointing towards a nearby chair.

Brock sat silently while Clint dealt with the reopened gash that bit deep into his side. “There,” he said, gently pressing an adhesive edged bandage over the newly stitched wound. “Sorry about the wall,” Brock said softly, eyes flicking over to the slightly off-colour streak along the white drywall that Clint couldn’t quite get out. “Don’t worry about it,” the archer replied as he stripped off his latex gloves and packed away the kit. “No, I…,” Brock stumbled. “That was outta line. You don’t deserve that kinda shit.”

Clint had seen enough clues over the years to know there was more behind the man’ words. It was in the way Brock would pull into himself after a night of heavy drinking, the way he’d flinch, just a little, at the sound of a plate or glass breaking. Clint knew there was a bigger issue there but now wasn’t the time to start digging up old trauma.

So instead he gently squeezed Brock’s ankle before putting the kit away and grabbing one of his oversized thermal hoodies. He worried at his lip, not liking the way Brock winced as he pulled his arms through the sleeves. “You hungry?” he asked. He wondered if he could hide painkillers in the man’s food but quickly dismissed that as a stupid idea. “Not really,” Brock replied. He looked lost again, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “Okay,” Clint replied.

It was a bit of a struggle but he finally managed to convince Brock to move to the couch. He got him bundled up in the the covers from the bedroom with a mug of coffee in his hands. The lines around his eyes and mouth were more prominent, a painful tension keeping him stiff.

“Come here,” Clint murmured, taking the forgotten coffee mug and gently pulling Brock back against his chest. Brock didn’t complain at Clint’s manhandling or coddling and it was a testament to how exhausted the STRIKE Commander was. Clint brought his legs up to bracket either side of Brock, the man’s head settled against his sternum. Not for the first time he silently thanked Nat for convincing him to buy the extra wide couch.

He began to gently card his fingers through Brock’s short damp hair, letting his nails scratch gently against the man’s scalp. He knew Brock found it soothing even if the man would never admit it. Slowly the pain lines smoothed from the dark haired man’s face, smoothing out as he began to relax. His eyes drooped, his breathing slowing until Clint knew he was asleep. The archer tried to stay awake but it was a battle he couldn’t win.

 

Clint woke with a start, alone on the couch with the city lights twinkling brightly against the night sky. He squashed his rising panic as he caught sight of a silhouette sitting out on the deck. He yawned, dragging the duvet behind him as he stepped out into the chilly night air. He dumped the covers unceremoniously on top of Brock, who was curled up on the lounger in the corner looking miserable.

“I know you think it’s your fault,” Clint said softly as he sat next to Brock’s feet. The man shot him a sour look before looking out over the city. “And that’s okay,” he continued, feeling Brock’s eyes flicked questioningly back to him. “I’ll just have to keep telling you it’s not until it gets through that thick skull of yours.” Brock said nothing to that and simply turned his gaze to stare back out over the city. Clint settled in, leaning back against the cold metal railings.

“Why do you put up with me?” Brock finally asked, somehow sounding painfully vulnerable under the harsh tone. “Because I like you,” Clint replied honestly. The older man chuckled bitterly. “Nobody likes me,” he said in a way that somehow didn’t sound winey or pitiful. It just felt honest.

“Jack did,” Clint said softly.

Brock’s eyes flicked down, jaw twitching. “Yeah well, he always was a shit judge of character,” he muttered. “I disagree,” Clint said mildly. “There must have been a reason why he stuck with your grumpy ass all these years.”

“And look where it got him,” Brock muttered harshly, dark eyes shining in the low light. Clint bit back the reflex to tell Brock that it wasn’t his fault, that it was just an accident and that he couldn’t blame himself. He knew the older man wouldn’t hear it so he tried another tactic.

“Jack made his own choices,” Clint said, voice soft but tone stern. “He was a soldier. He knew the risks, knew what he was getting himself into.” Brock shook his head desperately, denial laying stiff across his shoulders. “But if he had just listened—,” he protested but Clint wasn’t having it anymore. “Then you'd both be dead,” he interrupted bluntly. “I read the files. The only reason we didn’t bury you today too is because of Jack.”

Brock’s jaw began to tremble as the archer spoke. “It was an accident,” Clint stressed, leaning forward over crossed legs. “Horrible and shitty but a fucking accident.” Brock shook his head again. “I…,” was all he got out before his throat seemed to close up and his face crumpled. His eyes finally overflowed, tears spilling down his cheeks as silent sobs shook his broad shoulders. 

Clint scooted forward, one hand wrapping over the top of Brock’s bent knee and the other cupping against the back of the man’s skull. He gently closed the distance between them until Brock’s forehead was pressed against his shoulder and he could wrap his other arm around the man’s shaking frame. 

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there. Long enough for the wind to chase away the last of the clouds and reveal a smattering of stars twinkling in the dark. Long enough that Clint’s nose started to run from the cold and his right foot fell asleep but finally the heaving shakes began to slow, reducing to a gentle trembling. When Clint felt Brock begin to pull away, he let him go, keeping a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder.

Brock sniffed, wiping his nose on a damp sleeve as he avoided making eye contact. He took a shaky breath, struggling to collect himself. “It’s late, I should go,” he croaked. Clint could tell that the man didn’t really need to go, just felt like he should. He clearly didn’t want to go back to an apartment empty of everything but memories but he wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t ask to stay. So Clint would just have to offer. “Stay,” he asked softly. There was something suspicious lingering behind watery dark eyes and there was a long hesitation before Brock simply said “Okay.”

When Clint woke up the next morning, it was to the pale morning light sparking off the windows of the adjacent buildings. It was cold, everything on the deck was slightly damp including the covers, and old injuries were aching fiercely but it was all okay because Brock was curled against his side, sleeping peacefully.

 

 


	3. Black

“Fuck,” Clint hissed as another hale of bullets pinged above his head, showering him with shards of ice. He shot off another incendiary arrow, bemoaning the fact that it was his last and cursing the way his hands wouldn't stop shaking. Fuck, he was cold. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, he was running out of arrows, and he was still trapped on the side of a fucking mountain alone. 

His comms crackled and he froze, listening intently. His support team had supposed to check in with him two days ago. Maybe they’d finally heard all the fucking gunfire that had been erupting over this godforsaken mountain for the last six hours and finally decided to come lend a hand. A sudden shadow loomed over him and Clint rolled aside with a curse. Just in time.

He kicked out, catching his attacker behind the knee, cracking his bow across the man’s wrists and sending his gun flying. He tangled his legs through the agents and rolled, bringing him down and quietly snapping his neck as more shots cracked out across the forest. It took everything the archer had to push back up into his knees. His arms were shaking and he was so tired. He just wanted to have a nap, right here in the snow. Another volley of gunfire exploded followed by a muffled scream and then silence.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up just as soft footfalls shuffled in the snow behind him. Clint spun on his knees, fumbling for his bow. “Whoah, easy,” the black clad man snapped, yanking his goggles and balaclava down. “Fuck. Rumlow,” Clint gasped, falling back against the enemy agent’s still body and not even caring. “Warn a body, will yah?”

“You’re not looking too good, Specialist,” the STRIKE Alpha’s second in command said, peaking up over the fallen log Clint had taken shelter behind. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Clint slurred, feeling a bit giddy. “Never felt better. Better question is where the fuck have you been?”

“Trying not to get killed,” the older man drawled. “Whaaaat, no way, me too!” Clint crowed softly, trying to remember what he’d been doing on this fucking mountain in the first place. Oh yeah, the bad guys, the stolen top secret technology specs. “Mission report,” Rumlow ordered sternly. “Meh,” Clint replied, trying to remember how hands worked. “I mean yeah, I got the thingy from the baddies and made other things go boom but the sleeping in the cave I could have done without.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Rumlow snapped, eyes narrowing. “If you ever figure it out, please let me know,” Clint giggled as he fumbled his way to his knees. He could feel the older man’s eyes on him, calculating. “You’re hypothermic,” he stated. “Impossible,” Clint slurred sourly. “I’ve only spent three days on a fucking mountain without any supplies, why would I be hypothermic?” Rumlow just blinked at him. “We can’t stay here,” he said, grabbing Clint by the front of his jacket and yanking him to his feet. His hands fumbled with his bow, fingers feeling thick and uncoordinated. He felt more than heard the other man huff.

“Give me that,” Rumlow said gruffly, snatching the bow from numb fingers. “You gotta twist—,” Clint started but promptly shut up as Rumlow smoothly collapsed the bow down into its compact carry mode. “Whoah,” Clint said, blinking owlishly. “There’s an old hunters cabin on the other side of the ridge,” the older man snapped. “Let’s move.”

He looped an arm under Clint’s armpits, settling his rifle left handed against his shoulder. “You a lefty too?” Clint asked, seemingly unable to keep a filter between his brain and his mouth. “Ambidextrous,” the man said mildly as he began to half carry half drag Clint out into the trees. “Fancy,” he mumbled in reply, eyes latching onto the black-clad shapes that lay scattered about in the snow, unmoving. A few had arrows sticking out of them like morbid quills.

Clint tried to stay alert, he really did, but after a while the trees began to all blur together. He kept moving on autopilot. One foot in front of the other. He struggled not to lean too heavily on the other man but it was a loosing battle. “Fuck, you’re heavy,” Rumlow grumbled, shifting his grip on Clint’s parka. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to never ask a lady her weight?” Clint drawled, wishing he could stop shaking.

Finally, finally, they made it to the cabin. It was well hidden, camouflaged into the side of the ridge. It couldn’t be seen unless you knew it was there. Clint was bundled inside and unceremoniously dropped down against the far wall. “Sit tight, I’ll secure the perimeter,” Rumlow stated. “And stay awake,” he added sternly before disappearing back the way they’d came.

It was no warmer in the cabin. An iron stove sat in the middle next to a box of kindling. Clint knew they had to start a fire. The sun was on the downturn, threateningly close to the horizon and as soon as it was gone the temperature would plummet. He should start a fire but he couldn’t get his body to move. His eyes felt so heavy and he just wished he could stop shaking. Maybe he’d take just a little rest, then he’d start the fire.

Just a little rest….

 

  
Clint woke to a harsh voice and a light weight on his shoulders. A blanket of warmth seemed to be surrounding him and he just wanted to keep floating. A sharp snapping sound clicked under his nose and he dragged his eyes open to see Rumlow leaning over him. Snow was melting into his hair and dark eyes sharp with concern as he snapped his fingers under Clint’s nose. “You back with me?” the man asked. “Hunnng?” Clint slurred, flailing weakly. Hands tugged at buckles and zippers, carefully tugging the archer out of his outer layers. His quiver was set aside first, gauntlets and tac belt following.

Clint began shaking in ernest as the damp layers were peeled back, teeth chattering noisily. “You’re good, you’re good,” Rumlow murmured as he yanked Clint’s boots and pants off, leaving him in nothing but his thermals. He helped Clint in front of the fire, settling him down into a nest of blankets and furs. A survival blanket was wrapped around him, crinkling noisily. A musty smelling blanket was added on top, another across his legs.

The Commander returned a moment later, divested of his own outer layers. “Hands,” he ordered gruffly. The archer obliged, watching wearily as Rumlow carefully peeled off his gloves. Clint barely felt it. If his mind hadn’t been so foggy, that probably would have worried him more. As it was, he only knew something was wrong when Rumlow inhaled sharply, dark eyes flicking up to his briefly before looking away. Clint frowned, puzzled. He looked down to where Rumlow held his hands gingerly by the wrists.

“No,” he whispered.

His hands were a mess. Three of his fingers were blackened and swollen, the rest white-tipped and rock hard. “No, no, no, no,” he muttered, growing panic clawing painfully at his chest. His hands started shaking harder as his breath stuttered and caught in his throat. “Breathe, Barton,” Rumlow murmured. “No, no, you don’t understand, you don’t—,” Clint stammered, a breath away from hyperventilating. “I need them. I need my fingers. I can’t draw a bow without fucking fingers! I’m nothing without—I can’t—fuck, I can’t lose my fingers. No, I can’t, I—.”

“Hey, look at me, look at me!” Rumlow roared, hands tightening on Clint’s wrists. Clint’s wide eyes snapped to meet the older man’s. “Breathe,” he said again, softer this time. His thumb stroked soothingly along the inside of the archer’s wrist. Clint took a deep shaky breath, holding in for a count of two, and then letting it slowly out. “There we go,” Rumlow murmured as Clint took another breath.

“Okay, you done with the hysterics?” the dark haired man asked. Clint was lucid enough to fix the man with a sour look. Rumlow just smirked. “Okay, easy does it,” he murmured, taking Clint’s left hand in both of his. It was the worst off, his pointer and middle finger blackened and dead-looking. “I set off a beacon,” Rumlow explained as he gently cupped his hands around Clint’s. “We’ll get out of here in no time.” Carefully, Rumlow blew into his cupped hands, warm breath bathing Clint’s ruined fingers. It might have felt soothing if his stomach wasn’t tied in knots. Now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off, all the aches and bruises were making themselves apparent.

Slowly, Clint felt a little feeling return to his fingers, pain prickling along the digits. After what felt like forever, Rumlow pulled out medical pads and rolls of gauze and bandaged each of his fingers carefully. “Where’s the rest of your team? Why the hell were you so late? You were supposed to be here three days ago,” he asked. “ _We_ weren’t supposed to be here,” Rumlow said bitterly. “Your support team went dark two days ago, so they called us in.” He hesitated, carefully taping off the last bit of gauze. “My team’s dead,” he added stiffly. Something icy flushed through Clint’s body and it wasn’t anything to do with the hyperthermia. “What?” he breathed. “Ambushed almost as soon as we fuckin’ landed,” Rumlow growled. “I was sent on perimeter scout with Bates, barely made it out of the jet before it exploded. Got thrown clear. I dislocated my shoulder. Bates broke his neck.”

“Fuck,” Clint murmured. “Yeah,” Rumlow agreed, switching to Clint’s right hand. By the time he finished warming and wrapping those fingers, night had fully fallen and the wind had picked up with a vengeance. Clint could barely keep his eyes open. Everything was trembling, from his jaw to his toes. He watched through heavy eyes as Rumlow stoked up the fire, found a threadbare mattress in a corner, piled blankets and furs onto it in front of the stove, and laid out weapons within easy reach.

“Come ‘ere,” Rumlow said, helping Clint down into the bedding, putting his back towards the stove. “What’r y’ doin’?” he slurred as he watched Rumlow kick off his boots and climb under the blankets with him. “Sharing body heat, idiot,” the man grumbled. Clint was having trouble focusing and just let Rumlow manhandle him. He felt his injured hands carefully folded against his chest before arms wrapped around him. His face rested in the crook of Rumlow’s neck, strong legs tangling around his own. Heat radiated from the man’s chest and from the stove behind him, cocooning him in warmth.

“Yer r’lly warm,” he mumbled sleepily. He felt the older man’s chest rumble with a low chuckle. “I’ve been told I’m a portable space heater,” Rumlow commented quietly. “But without the risk of fire,” Clint added sleepily. “Or electrocution. This is better.” Rumlow chuckled again, shushing him amusedly. “Shut up, birdbrain” the man scolded gently, humour bleeding into his words. Clint wanted to argue but his body had other ideas and everything slowly faded away.

 

 

Clint vaguely remembered waking up to the sounds of boots and shouting. He tried to get up, tried to fight the hands that were on him. Hands were gripping his wrists and he didn’t like it. He couldn’t remember where he was, who was with him. His eyelids were heavy, his mind foggy. Then a hand settled on his chest and a soothing voice reached his ears. Something was familiar there and Clint calmed down without really understanding why. He kind of remembered cold air hitting his face and the sensation of floating. It was noisy and confusing but the hand on his chest stayed, along with the soft soothing voice in his ear. Something sharp pricked at the inside of his arm, something else sharp scrapping the back of his hand.

The next time Clint woke up, he felt coherent. He was lying on a soft bed, swathed in white linen with neatly bandaged hands and hooked up to an IV. Within moments, a perky little burnet nurse came in to check on him. Hospital, his scrambled brain supplied. He was in a hospital. A doctor came in soon after and Clint nearly wept in relief when she told him they hadn’t needed to amputate. She cautioned him that it was still early days and nerve damage was still a possibility but that everything pointed towards a full recovery.

It was a week later and Clint was finally free. He changed in the bathroom, pulling up soft sweat pants and a soft hoody. Bless Nat for popping by with a change of clothes that didn’t have any button or zippers. He stepped back into his room to find Rumlow lounging in the uncomfortable plastic chair beside the bed, boots kicked up onto the covers.

“Hey,” the man said, not even looking up from his phone.

“Hey,” Clint replied.

“Hear congratulations are in order,” he commented mildly, crossing the room to the boots Nat had dropped off along with the news that Rumlow had been promoted to STRIKE Alpha Commander. Rumlow’s lips twisted a little bitterly as he pocketed the device. “Yeah,” he drawled. “It’s what I wanted but…would have had it happen under better circumstances.” Clint hummed in agreement, stuffing his feet into his boots. “So why’re you here?” he asked, honestly curious. He’d never been particularly close with the man. They worked together often and they worked well but they weren’t friends. They’d never spent any time together outside of work, save for sharing the occasional cigarette on overnight missions.

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” Rumlow confessed. “Put a lot of energy into getting you back in one piece. Glad to see it wasn’t a wasted effort.” Clint snorted rudely. “Charming,” he commented dryly. “So I’ve been told,” the man drawled with a lopsided smirk that had Clint’s insides flip-flopping. “Arrogant, that’s what I meant,” Clint amended, trying to carefully pull his bandaged hands through the sleeves of his leather jacket. “Don’t go insulting your ride home,” the man smirked, getting to his feet and giving Clint a hand. “What?” the archer replied intelligently. Rumlow’s smirk broadened, eyes sparkling. Clint couldn’t help but notice the man had a really nice smile. “Romanoff had a work emergency. Asked me to take you.”

“Course she did,” Clint muttered, mentally cursing the meddling redhead’s matchmaking tendencies. Rumlow chuckled, breath tickling the side of Clint’s neck as he stepped around behind him to settle the jacket up over his shoulders. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?” he said, voice low and rumbling.

“What?” Clint exclaimed, whirling sharply to find Rumlow lounging against the doorframe. “Oh god, what did I say?” he groaned, really not sure he wanted to know the answer. Rumlow smirked, a teasing sparkling in his dark eyes that had Clint feeling like he might be in trouble. “Come on, birdbrain,” he drawled wickedly. “I’ve got more uses in the bedroom than just as a space heater.”

Oh god, Clint was most definitely in trouble.

 

 


	4. Competition

“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Brock complained as Clint hustled him down into indoor range. “Nothing wrong with a lil’ friendly competition,” the archer drawled, throwing a teasing smirk over his shoulder as he punched his code into the door lock. “And remind me why we are doing this on our first day off in over a month?” he griped, begrudgingly allowing the younger man to pull him inside the room.

The door locked with a soft click behind them as Clint pulled away and opened a nearby cabinet, revealing racks of recurve and compound bows. Brock heaved a long suffering sigh. He enjoyed archery lessons with Clint, but he’d had other plans for the day. Plans that hadn’t involved being dragged out of bed at some ungodly hour to try and outshoot fucking Legolas.

“It’ll be fun,” Clint insisted, passing him the beautiful black recurve he’d been using of late. “Breakfast in bed would have been fun,” Brock grumbled, taking the bow anyways. “Shower sex would have been fun,” he added snidely as Clint took out his favourite take-down recurve, handle and detailing reflecting a bright purple hue. “Your shower is too fucking small for sex,” Clint shot back as he grabbed two hip quivers of target arrows.

“First person outside the red is the loser,” he stated, racking up a couple simple ring targets. “You’ve got to be fucking me,” Brock snapped as Clint sent the targets whirring down the lanes. His shot had been steadily improving over the last few months but he was nowhere near being able to touch Clint, and the bastard knew it. “Not yet,” the blonde man replied wickedly. “Maybe when I win though.” Brock bit back a retort as blood rapidly rushed away from his brain. He swallowed dryly. He ground his teeth against the arrogant chuckle the archer let out, obviously noting the reaction his words had. “Let’s just get this over with,” he hissed, snatching a quiver from Clint and stalking up to a lane.

“Ladies first,” he snarled, letting his temper get the better of him. Clint just gave him a bland look. “Age before beauty,” the younger man shot back, lounging casually against the lane divider. “You calling me old?” he growled back. Clint just laughed and Brock gritted his teeth against a nastier retort as he put an arrow to the string instead. “Fix your feet,” Clint commented as Brock lined up on target. “What?” he said with fake innocence as Brock glared at him. “Wouldn’t want this to be over too quickly.”

He drew in a slow breath, trying to ignore the younger man and his infuriating smirk as he drew the string smoothly back to his ear, took sight, and let it fly. The arrow slammed into the target’s top left corner, nowhere near the target ring. Brock bit back a curse, neck flushing in embarrassment. “Consider that a warm up shot,” Clint said, face carefully controlled but eyes sparkling with mischief. “Again.”

“Friendly competition, my ass,” Brock growled, pulling another arrow from the quiver. “Yep,” Clint drawled, leaning closer. “It’ll definitely be your ass at the end of this.” Brock set his teeth and tried to ignore him. He took his time, sighting carefully before taking a deep breath and releasing the bowstring. The arrow hit the target solidly in the red. “Good job,” Clint drawled, unfurling his Stark made bow with a snap of his wrist. “But you’re still cocking your wrist too much.” Even before he’d finished his sentence he’d put an arrow in the air. He didn’t even look, the slender projectile slamming dead centre in the black.

“Are you just stroking your ego or what?” Brock growled, starting to get really irritated. “I hope to be stroking something else by the end of the morning,” Clint replied wickedly, sending another arrow down the lane to slice into his first one, splitting it in half. “Congrats Errol Flynn, you won the hand of the maiden,” Brock snapped sarcastically. “So where’s my golden arrow, M’lady?” Clint drawled, looping a finger through the dark-haired man’s belt loop.

Brock slapped the younger man’s hand away, turning back to his own lane. There was no way he could keep this up. He was going to lose, no doubt about it. The last thing he wanted to do is give the man the satisfaction. He calmly sent an arrow down the lane, barely making it into the red.

“I’ll give it to you,” Clint commented, lewdly putting a double meaning his words. “How gracious,” Brock spat, setting the bow on a nearby table as frustration boiled under his skin. Clint was being a little shit and he’d had just about enough. “Gracious is my middle name, ask Nat,” the archer drawled as he casually stepped up to his target. Seeing the way the man put a little extra swagger into his step had a plan unfolding in Brock’s mind.

Slow and languid, Brock closed the space between them, leaning casually against the lane divider. Clint sent a raised eyebrow back at him over his shoulder. “Just wanna get a closer look at your technique is all,” Brock said innocently. Clint looked back down the lane, nostrils flaring slightly. Brock smothered a smirk. He was making Clint nervous. Good.

He shifted closer as the slightly shorter man drew an arrow and raised his bow. A smooth draw had Brock pressing his chest flush to the man’s back, hips pressed up against Clint’s ass. He felt the man falter, his draw loosening an inch. “I’m not distracting you, am I?” Brock murmured wickedly, settling a hand lightly on Clint’s hips. “N-no,” Clint said, words stumbling off his tongue. Brock watched as the younger man swallowed thickly, throat rolling.

He’d seen Clint shoot enough to know the man’s tells, the slight tensing in the fingers along the bow’s grip, the slight narrowing of his eyes. Just as Clint’s fingers were about to leave the string, Brock slide his hands down to cup the man through his jeans, grinding up against him from behind. Clint’s breath stuttered in his chest and he jumped, fingers plucking back on the string instead of releasing it smoothly.

The arrow slammed into the blue, two rings outside the bullseye.

“I win,” Brock stated smugly, stepping away from the blonde man. “That’s cheating,” Clint growled as he whirled on the STRIKE commander, cheeks flushed red and pupils blown. “I don’t remember you ever laying out any ground rules,” he pointed out wickedly. “You’re a fucking dick,” the younger man grumbled, setting his bow down next to Brock’s.

“Naw,” Brock drawled and then he lunged. He slammed Clint up against the lane divider, slipping his thigh roughly up between Clint’s legs with a hand to his throat. He felt more than heard Clint’s breath catch in his chest. “But it will be this dick fucking you later,” he murmured besides the man’s ear, feeling a shiver ripple through the man’s body.

“That was t-terrible,” the younger man choked out, swallowing against Brock’s palm. “Maybe,” Brock grinned, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “But I still won.” He cut off Clint’s protests by nipping along his jawline, rocking roughly up against him. He waited until he pulled a low groan from the archer’s throat, until he felt Clint buck up against him and then abruptly stepped back. He stored his gear away neatly and headed for the door, acting like nothing had happened.

“What, you’re leaving just like that?” Clint snapped after him, sounding flustered. “Hey, I wanted a lazy morning with shower sex,” Brock pointed out, one hand on the door handle. “You wanted to get all cute and competitive.”

“Hey, you can’t just leave, we drove here together!” the younger man called after him as Brock stepped out into the hallway. “Then I’d hurry up,” he commented. “Oh, and I’d deal with that first,” he said, looking pointedly to the tenting at the front of Clint’s jeans. The archer flushed scarlet. Brock just smothered a chuckle and closed the door to muffle the outraged curses that were flung at him by the flustered archer. 

 


	5. Landowner

SHIELD fell while Clint was taking a nap.

He’d been put on three weeks mandatory medical leave and had decided to go home. Not to his tiny brownstone apartment on the edge of Queens, not to the modest SHIELD supplied condo that overlooked the Potomac in Washington, and certainly not to the ridiculously lavash floor of rooms in the Avengers tower. He’d gone home to his farm buried deep in the heart of the Colorado wilderness, where twenty odd acres of fields and wilderness bracketed every side.

Natasha’s call woke him, sprawled out on the couch with a book open across his chest. “H’lo?” he mumbled, grimacing at the tacky feeling in his ears. He hated falling asleep with his aids in. They always made his head feel gummy. “Tell me you’re safe,” were not the words he was expecting to hear. “I’m home. What’s wrong?” Clint asked sharply, coming fully awake with a snap. “Have you been living under a rock?” she hissed impatiently. “You know I haven’t gotten the antenna back up after that storm,” he answered patiently. “And you also know that—,”

“SHIELD fell,” she said, stopping Clint dead in the middle of his sentence. “What?” he breathed. “What happened?” he asked, already compartmentalizing his disbelief and fear like he did on missions. “Fix your wifi,” she snapped. Something in her tone was deflecting.

“Tash, what is it?” he asked softly. He’d known her long enough. He knew she when she was hiding something, or at the very least holding something back. “Clint…it’s Rumlow. He’s…,” she hesitated. Natasha never hesitated. He felt the blood drain from his face, his heart bottoming out into his boots as his ribs tried to force his lungs up into his throat.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” he said into the silence. He thought that was it. That was what had made Natasha falter, the woman who was unwavering in the face of any threat. That was it because there couldn’t be anything worse than having to tell a friend their significant other had died, probably horrifically, over a thousand miles away while you were taking a fucking nap.

“It’s worse than that,” Natasha said softly.

 

Clint wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, staring into middle space after Natasha hung up with the promise to check in once she got herself situated. Then, as if on autopilot, he got to his feet. He shrugged on a jacket, climbed onto the roof, and tore his rotator cuff further fixing the antenna.

He spent the next four hours combing through the years worth of top secret information that had been dumped onto the internet for all to see. “God, Natasha, what have you done?” he murmured as he scrolled through pages upon pages of mission files dedicated to his undercover work in Croatia six years ago. Every single mission he’d run for SHIELD had been exposed. Every single mission SHIELD had ever run, dating all the way back to the 1940s were there. Any alias he’d set up under the organization, every scrap of dirt they’d dug up on him, everything single piece of dirty laundry had been put out on the line.

He couldn’t blame her, couldn’t hate her for burning him like that. She’d burned herself just as bad, probably worse. It was the only way to get rid of the cancer that HYDRA had infected them with and he got that. Clint would be fine. The house wasn’t on any SHIELD register, he’d made sure of it. It had been part of Clint’s deal when he’d joined up as a Specialist. He had a shoebox of passports and drivers licenses just waiting to be completed. He could build a new identity, start over.

He’d be fine.

Then he found the proof he’d tried not to find and he wasn’t sure if he was going to be fine after all. He’d believed her when she’d told him because Natasha never lied, not to him, but a small part of him hoped she was misinformed. It was just a sliver, but it was there; a small nagging doubt that asked the question _'but what if she got it wrong?'_

She hadn’t. It was all here, laid out in painful typeface, boldly declaring that a massively important part of his life had been a complete and utter lie. The man who’d stumbled into his life five and a half years ago, who’d somehow managed to get past all of Clint’s barriers and emotional hangups and issues with commitment in general, had lied every single day. Not just lied, but manipulated. It made Clint nothing more than a mission; a dirty side piece in some twisted grand scheme.

Brock was HYDRA.

_Fuck._

  
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><

 

_-Six Years Earlier-_

“Hold up. A farm?” Brock gasped after they’d both nosedived through a window of a gutted old factory in the wake of a hale of machine gun fire. “You own a farm? Like _Little House on the Prairie, Ann of Green Gables, Dear America_ fuckin’ farm?”

Clint let out a breathy chuckle that had a good dose of giddy adrenaline mixed in. “You been doing a little reading in your free time?” A gloved hand slapped tiredly against his chest. “Shut up, I got nieces,” the older man grumbled as he changed out the clip in his rifle. “Break right on my mark, circle back around West. We’ll rendezvous with Charlie team.”

“It’s beautiful there,” Clint said, peaking over the window sill to see black clad shadows slipping through the complex, streetlights glinting off gun metal. “Nothing but woods and fields for miles. You can walk for hours and never see a another person.”

“Sounds idyllic,” Brock said, getting to his knees. “I’d love to see it. On my mark.” The soft scrape of boots on concrete could be heard growing closer. “You’ll just have to come visit one day,” Clint offered lightly, notching an arrow to his bowstring. Something soft glinted in the older man’s eye, just for a moment before focus and the calm detachment that came whenever Brock was in the field took over. Clint didn’t have a chance to ponder what that first look meant as footfalls pounded into the building. “Go,” Brock ordered, shoving Clint forward as the door beside them splintered.

 

 

_—Five Years Earlier—_

“Okay, enough,” Brock snapped, crowding Clint into a corner of the parking garage. “I’ve had enough.” Clint felt his heart scramble out of his chest but got stuck in his throat and made it hard to swallow. This was it. He’d been waiting for it all to implode on itself the last two months. They’d been seeing each other for nine. It was the longest anyone had put up with him before and it had been perfect.

Fuck, it had been perfect. Brock was snarky and grumpy and so dangerous it made Clint weak at the knees. He drank wine and hated beer, to which he endured the endless teasing of STRIKE with nothing more than a lopsided smirk. He put more effort into his hair than Clint did in a whole week and could cook practically anything while the archer had been known to burn water.

He was gruff and scary and had every single soldier and rookie in SHIELD terrified of him but Clint had seen the other sides, the softer sides that the STRIKE Commander kept well hidden. The side that would come out on a rookie’s first deployment, soft but stern words calming jittery nerves. There was the side that came out when there was an injury. It didn’t matter who it was, if they were under Brock’s command he would be by their side during evac, a steady hand wrapped around an ankle or gently gripping a shoulder.

Then there was the side that only came out in direct correlation to Clint. The archer could only describe it as gentle, which sounded so wrong in connection to the scarred soldier. It was nothing big, nothing grandiose. It was the way Brock would subtly get him coffee during long or difficult debriefs, over sugared to death just the way he liked it. It was the gentle touches in passing when they were alone; fingers brushing the inside of his wrist or scratching through his hair, a hand settling on the back of his neck. It was the casual way Brock would drag Clint’s feet into his lap when he was hogging the couch.

It had been nine months and Clint had been freaking out for two. Now the very thing that he’d been stressing over had cornered him in the fucking parking garage at six in the morning. Clint was over-tired, under-caffeinated, and completely fucking stressed. He also didn’t take kindly to being trapped, his nerves winding tight from years of combat in response.

“I’ve had enough,” Brock rumbled, one hand planted on the side of Clint’s truck, the other braced on his hip. “Okay,” Clint said simply, crossing his arms over his chest like armour. He braced himself for the excuses, the reasons why they were a bad fit, the harsh words. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard them all before and he certainly wasn’t expecting Brock to be any more creative but this time it would hurt. That’s what he got for letting himself get invested. _“Okay,”_ Brock echoed before heaving a huge sigh.

“Clint, remember when we first met? My team was pinned down in that factory in Belarus. You drove a truck through the front windows to give us an exit, quoted Terminator and then vaulted through a window. I didn’t properly meet you for another two months and when I did you spilled coffee all over my pants.” Clint tucked away his confusion, keeping his face a smooth unreadable canvas. This was an odd way of ending it with someone.

“What about the time you nearly took my eye out because you fell asleep in the middle of fletching and I didn’t know you got nightmares,” Brock continued. “Or the time you put a knife to my throat because you’d just gotten back from that Croatia mission and hadn’t decompressed yet. Four months ago you riddled my kitchen cabinets with arrows because you didn’t know how to deal after Romanoff nearly died in Iran and just last week, you made me late for a mission brief because you insisted on stopping on the highway to rescue that stray dog.”

“Get to the point,” Clint interrupted stiffly, wishing the man would just hurry up. “The point is,” the dark haired man said insistently. “Even after all that you still seem to be waiting for me to put in the towel and it’s starting to get on my nerves.”

“What?” Clint breathed intelligently.

“I know you don’t really do long term,” the older man continued slowly, licking his lips a little nervously. Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Who says?” he interrupted swiftly, feeling a little defensive. Brock’s eyes flickered guiltily. “You’ve been talking with Natasha,” Clint accused.

“Listening, really,” Brock confessed. “She did most of the talking, as usual.” Clint’s breath hissed through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna kill her,” he breathed. “You can try,” Brock chuckled, sobering quickly at the glare the archer levered at him. “Look, all she said was that you could be a bit oblivious. I filled in the rest.”

Clint shrugged, shifting his weight uneasily. “I know I’m difficult,” he said stiffly. “Most people don’t wanna deal with me, once they find out how difficult.” _How many issues I have,_ went unsaid. Clint couldn’t say it, even if it was the truth. The last relationship he’d had lasted only until the archer’s first nightmare, phantom echoes of enemies causing him forget where he was and who he was with. Few relationships in his life had lasted longer and Clint eventually just accepted that he wasn’t built for them.

“Well, I’m not most people,” Brock said drawled. “I’m not easily scared and if I didn’t want this, I’d leave.” Clint swallowed thickly, hugging his arms closer to himself. The dark haired man closed the gap until he stood inches from the archer. “But I’m here,” he said softly. “And I’m not made of glass. I can handle a lot.”

Clint swallowed the prickly sensation down, shoving it aside. “Besides,” the older man continued. “I still haven’t seen the famous farmhouse yet. You think I’d call it quits before getting the grand tour?” He smiled, that lopsided smirk missing its usual sharp edge. “Okay,” Clint said softly. It was clearly not the answer Brock was looking for. “Okay?” he sighed. “Again with the okay, Clint. Can you please just—,”

The rest of the man’s words were lost as Clint surged forward and pressed his lips against Brock’s. As swiftly as he initiated he pulled away, leaving the older man looking slightly stunned. “Okay,” Brock breathed, a hand coming to settle on the archer’s hip. “Okay,” Clint smiled, small and genuine, as he slipped past the older man’s broad shoulders. “And don’t blame me when you’re late for debrief this time,” he added, giving Brock a hard smack on the ass.

 

  
_—Three Years Earlier—_

“I’m not made of fuckin’ glass,” Brock snapped, slapping away Clint’s offered hand. Clint held back an impatient sigh, wishing for once the older man wasn’t so damn stubborn. Whenever Clint came limping home from a mission gone wrong, Brock was there fussing. He fussed and hovered like a mother hen and Clint just put up with it but when the situations were reversed, heaven forbid Clint try and simply help him out of the fucking truck.

It had taken him and STRIKE three days to find Brock.

By the time they did, he was completely out of it, dehydration and a cocktail of drugs making him delirious. Clint had stood there, stoney faced as the SHIELD doctor listed off the man’s injuries; concussion, broken ribs, three broken fingers, and a sever fracture to his left tibia. They’d been damned lucky to find him when they had. Clint had seen the tables of equipment waiting to be used, some not even cleaned since their last use. The sight of the old blood had turned even Clint’s seasoned nerves.

“You’re hovering,” the man spat as he carefully made his way up the drive on crutches. “Damn right I’m hovering,” he shot back as his kept a watchful step behind Brock. “You know how far away from civilization we are? The last thing I need is for you to take a tumble and pop a lung.” The look he got from the injured man would have soured milk. “Yeah, wouldn’t wanna be an inconvenience,” Brock muttered darkly as he carefully hobbled up the front porch steps. Clint followed with a sigh.

This was definitely not how Clint imagined their first time on the farm would go. He’d imagined lazy mornings and Brock finally making use of that waffle maker Sitwell had given Clint for Secret Santa two years ago. He’d imagined finally fixing the leak in the barn roof because it was a two-man job and the only person that knew about the farm was Natasha and she had flatly refused to crawl around the barn’s loft on her vacation. He’d imagined sitting on the back porch and watching storm clouds roll in over the mountains, lightening strikes reflecting in the river at the bottom of the hill.

He hadn’t imagined the stilted silence and going to bed alone, with Brock taking the pullout in the office so he didn’t have to deal with the stairs. He hadn’t imagined the closed doors and the lack of eye contact and the way Brock flinched away whenever he drew too close. It wasn’t anything that hadn’t already been happening back in Washington but it was less pronounced because they didn’t live together. Under one roof, it was clear Brock was avoiding him.

Clint didn’t blame him. The man had been through hell and Clint understood that. He’d had a few brushes with torture over his many years with SHIELD and before when he was a contract mercenary. So when Fury had cornered him the day before, telling him in no uncertain terms that both he and Brock were on leave effective immediately, he’d thought it was for the best. “Get him out of the city,” the Director had ordered and Clint had agreed. Change of pace, change of scenery, no coworkers sending sidelong glances and gossiping behind file folders.

And now here they were.

Clint couldn’t sleep that night. Every time he finally managed, nightmares would yank him right back awake. Eventually he just gave up, yanking on a hoody as he padded softly downstairs into the kitchen. He slowed, finding the lights already on and a familiar figure sitting at the kitchen table. “Sorry if I woke you,” Brock said roughly, not even turning around. “Naw, you’re fine,” Clint yawned, shuffling over to the coffee maker. “Couldn’t sleep is all.”

“What’s your excuse?” the older man drawled, lines of pain etched thick around his eyes. “Bad dreams,” Clint offered softly as the coffee maker burbled to life. “Yeah. Yeah, me too,” Brock confessed, voice barely above a whisper. Clint stifled a sigh.  _God_ , the man looked so tired. Moving slowly, all the while contesting Brock’s protests with murmured nonsense, he got the man’s bad leg propped up on another chair, a blanket across his lap. “You don’t need to baby me,” the dark-haired man muttered sourly. “I’m not—,”

“Made of fucking glass, yeah I heard you the first time,” Clint drawled as the coffee maker beeped and dripped to a stop. Neither man said anything as Clint filled two mugs, hazelnut creamer in one and far too much sugar in the other.

Thunder rumbled overhead as lightening illuminated the kitchen in a bright flash. “Come on,” Clint said with a small smile. He grabbed the coffees in one hand and helped Brock to his feet with the other. “Lean on me,” the archer advised which earned him a sour look but for once Brock didn’t push back. He simply wrapped an around around Clint’s shoulders and they made their way onto the back deck.

Clint got the man situated on one of the lounge chairs with the coffee by his elbow before going back in for a couple blankets. He came back just in time to see a massive fork of lightning sizzled horizontally across the sky. He tucked a couple heavy blankets around Brock, ignoring the grumbled protests, before curling up next to him.

“I love watching the storms here,” Clint said mildly as the first of the rain started pattering against the roof. Brock made a non committal grunting noise, grabbing up his coffee. A huge thunderclap loud enough to shake the windows boomed overhead, causing both men to flinch. With that, the skies seemed to open in a sudden torrential downpour. It was coming down so hard, Clint could barely see the barn. “Jesus, it’s coming down, ain’t it?” he murmured, sipping on his own coffee.

“Don’t,” Brock rasped. “Don’t what?” Clint asked, tucking his feet more security under the blanket as the wind began to pick up. Brock offered no explanation, staring broodingly across the yard. “I’m not fragile,” the man finally said, hands stiff around his mug. “Never said you were, Clint pointed out but Brock continued on like he hadn’t heard him.

“I don’t like being helpless,” he confessed, voice tight and thick-sounding. “I don’t like having to ask for help.” Here the man paused. “Neither do I,” Clint admitted, filling the gap as he set his mug aside. “Which is why it was nice that I didn’t have to after I was injured in Bulgaria.” He shifted, turning to face the older man. “You just helped and didn’t make a big deal out of it. I never thanked you for that.”

He watched Brock’s throat roll as the man swallowed thickly. He didn’t expect an answer and he didn’t get one. They sat in silence until the storm had moved on, rolling over the hills and towards town. The rain let up a little but the wind picked up and Clint could see Brock struggling not to shiver.

“Let’s go inside, I’m freezing,” he said, snatching up the two mugs and helping Brock to his feet. He chuckled softly at the massive yawn Brock tried unsuccessfully to stifle. “I think we could both use some sleep.” At the bottom of the stairs Brock paused, hesitating. His eyes shifted like they did when he was nervous. “Your pullout bed is shit,” he muttered. Clint tucked away a smile and said nothing. Instead, he just helped the man upstairs.

 

  
_—Two Years Ago—_

This was how Clint had imagined bringing Brock to the farm would have gone. They’d both gotten a week of leave, miraculously at the same time. They’d flown straight to Colorado, driving through the night and arriving just before sunrise. Brock made waffles and they sat out on the back porch and watched the sun rise before tumbling into bed and sleeping until well into the afternoon.

Clint sighed, trying and failing to remember the last time he was this content. The room was cast in shadows, the evening sun streaming through the curtains. A low laugh rumbled through the chest his head was currently pillowed agains and he felt fingers card through his short locks.

“Move in with me,” he said suddenly.

“What, here?” Brock chuckled. “Here, in Washington,” Clint elaborated. “I also have a place in New York and another in Toronto and that doesn't even include the safe-houses in Barbados, Germany, I could go on. I have about six.” Clint felt the man freeze beneath him. “I’m serious,” the archer continued, sitting up on his knees so he could see the other man. “Seems silly when you barely spend any time at your own place anyways.” He frowned, noticing that Brock had done noting but stare at him.

“What?” he stated, panic starting to settle up under his ribs. He thought he’d read this right, figured that after so many years this conversation was long past due. The rising anxiety froze in its place as a soft smile pulled across Brock’s face, his eyes warm and filled with a resigned sort of humour.

 _“What?!”_ Clint growled, feeling like he was missing something important and not knowing why. Brock huffed another little chuckle, grin widening. “I wanted to ask you after the Assistant Director’s disastrous New Years party, the one where you snorted punch out your nose.”

Clint remembered that night. No one wanted to be there and to say it had been a disaster would be a massive understatement. It was a stuffy black tie event which had gone down hill after Nat threatened to toss Sitwell through a window if he didn’t stop talking to her. Rollins and Brock had challenged each other to an innuendo-off and things had gotten so out of hand that they’d all nearly been suspended.

“But that was four years ago,” Clint breathed. Brock’s chuckled turned a little sheepish. “Yeah,” he confessed. “Romanoff said it’d scare you off. Told me to wait until _you_ asked _me_.” Clint muttered something unflatteringly under his breath about meddling Russians to which Brock laughed out loud and yanked him back down into bed.

“So is that a yes?” Clint asked as Brock rolled them over, pinning the archer underneath him. Brock’s answer was non verbal, but Clint wasn’t complaining any.

 

 

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It was raining, fat droplets pinging off the roof and flooding down the eves, when bright headlights cut through the darkness a half mile out. The growl of the engine could be heard before long, gravel crunching under tires. The headlights stayed on even after the truck stopped, glaring white light slashing across the yard.

Clint waited, peering out through the curtains, bow in hand, quiver slung low on his hip. He waited and apparently the driver was too. No movement stirred the darkened cab. It wouldn’t be Nat. She would have figured out a way to send word. It wasn’t any of the neighbours either. He didn’t recognize the truck and besides, they would have called ahead. Not to mention none of them were in the habit of making late night calls during a thunderstorm. A fork of lightening flashed across the sky, illuminating the inside of the cab and the sole occupant who sat in the driver’s seat.

The truck door opened the same time Clint kicked the front door open. The first arrow he released pinged against the side mirror as the driver ducked. The second slammed into the door itself, metal screeching in protest.

“Clint, stop! It’s me!”

He knew exactly who it was. He already had another arrow notched. His hand was steady on the grip, his feet planted evenly, breath calm. In contrast, his heart was thumping in his chest like a jackhammer, drilling a frantic beat all the way back through his spine. Hands raised in surrender peaked from around the open door, followed slowly by a thatch of spiky dark hair flattened out of its usual pompadour by the rain.

The man rounded in front of the truck, arms still raised and dark eyes cautious. His clothes were rumpled and looked slept in. The left side of his face was rough and red, skin bubbled and burned tight across his cheekbone like a cheap halloween mask. He walked with a limp, shifting his weight lopsidedly to the right.

He pulled up short as Clint shifted, finger tense against the string, too disciplined to rest it however much he wanted to. He’d imagined what he’d do if this day came, over the last two weeks since Nat’s call. Sometimes he imagined just shooting him outright, before the man could get a word out. Now, face to face and the man injured, Clint couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Give me a reason,” he said stiffly.

“Easy,” Brock murmured placatingly.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t,” Clint snapped, muscles coiled and tense. Something deflated across the Brock’s shoulders and he swallowed thickly, bruised throat rolling. “I can’t,” the older man said softly. Silence echoed, save for the rain that poured off the edge of the roof and splattered on the porch steps. It had soaked the dark haired man through by now, the dark canvas jacket offering little protection. “Why are you here?” Clint finally asked, ignoring the way the night air chilled his bare feet and made the hairs on his forearms prickle.

“I needed to see you,” Brock said, eyes earnestly wide.It just made Clint hate him more. “Well, you’re too late,” he snapped. “Nat already called. Between that and, you know, the internet, I know everything.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” the man tried but Clint wasn’t having it. “Bullshit, you’re lying,” Clint spat hatefully. “I never lied,” the dark-haired man insisted. “Not to you, not about us.” A bitter bark of a laugh ripped from somewhere deep within Clint’s chest, rasping and ugly-sounding. “Again, I call bullshit,” he snapped. “All you ever did was lie. Since day one.”

Brock shook his head, sending water droplets flying. “No. Clint,” he tried but the archer wasn’t having any of it. “I was so stupid,” he explained. “I let you play me like a fucking bitch.” Brock made a funny choked noise, something that came from deep in the back of his throat. “Clint, _please_.”

“Tell me I wasn’t just another mission.” Clint demanded, feeling a thrum of black satisfaction as saw watched Brock flinch. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he spat bitterly, swallowing back the tangled black mess of feelings that clawed angrily and painfully at the inside of his lungs. He saw the dark haired man lick his lips nervously, dark eyes looking so sad as he went to take a step forward.

“You haven’t been my mission for a very long time, little bird.”

Clint felt the recoil vibrate up his forearm, the string snapping from his fingertips. The sound of the tension releasing cracked through the air the same moment a flash of light sizzled above them. The arrow slammed into the dirt inches from Brock’s right boot toe and the dark-haired man stopped dead.

“Lie to me again,” Clint breathed, another arrow already on the string.

Brock’s mouth opened as he stared at the indent in the dirt but no sound came out. Rain dripped from his hair and down his face, giving the impression of tears which definitely did nothing to help keep Clint’s emotions in check. “I’m not lying,” Brock stated. “I don’t believe you,” Clint snarled through clenched teeth. “I know,” the man whispered.

Clint hissed in a shaky breath and wished he could compartmentalize this better. He was finding it near impossible to continue to stare down his weapon at the man he’d hoped to wake up next to for the rest of his life. The resigned anguish reflecting in the dark eyes he was staring into was definitely not helping.

“Why?” he demanded, wishing he was strong enough not to ask that question. Brock’s throat rolled as he swallowed. “It’s complicated,” the man tried. “String theory is complicated,” Clint snapped mockingly. “Piloting a SR-71 Blackbird at Mach 3 is complicated, assembling Ikea furniture without instructions is fucking complicated!”

“Then what do you want me to say?!” Brock cried, splaying his arms out wide to the sides. “Nothing!” Clint roared back, hating himself for the heat that was prickling at the corner of his eyes. “There’s not a fucking thing you can say.”

Something resigned filtered into Brock’s eyes and he took another step. “Don’t,” Clint ground out but the dark-haired man just took another step. One more and he was at the porch steps. “You gonna shoot me, little bird?” he asked quietly, somehow managing to not make it sound mocking. “Don’t call me that,” Clint spat back.

“I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me,” Brock continued like the archer hadn’t said a thing. “Shut up,” the archer hissed. Another step. Clint’s teeth ground together as he took another shot. It hissed over Brock’s shoulder, clipping his jacket before slamming into the truck’s windshield with a splintering crack. “Don’t,” Clint said again hating the way he he couldn’t stop his voice from wavering.

Brock lunged.

Clint fired again and missed.

For the first time in over two decades, _he_ _missed_.

The bow flew from his hands, sailing across the yard into darkness and then it was just the two men, chests heaving with Brock’s hands tangled in the archer’s shirt and Clint with an arrow pressed against the agent’s throat. Then slowly, so slowly, Brock’s hands came up to cup either side of Clint’s jaw. Clint’s free hand latched onto one of Brock’s wrists to push him away but Brock only moved closer. The arrowhead sliced a thin line down his throat, blood mixing with the rain as it trickled under the man’s collar.

“I’m sorry,” Brock breathed as he pressed his forehead against Clint’s and now the archer couldn’t decide whether he was pushing the man away or pulling him closer. His eyes prickled and burned but he wasn’t crying. He wasn’t fucking crying. Days worth of scruff scraped against Clint’s skin as Brock’s fingers dug into the back of his neck and lips pressed against his.

“I’m so sorry,” Brock whispered against his lips and then he was gone.

By the time Clint blinked his eyes clear, Brock was already in the truck, the arrow already tugged free from the windshield. Clint caught the older man’s eye as another flash of lightening lite up the yard and then with a squeal of tires, the truck was gone.

Clint definitely wasn’t crying.

 

_—Seven Years Later—_

It had been three years since Thanos had invaded and the world went to shit. Three years since Clint had finally managed to make his way to Wakanda only to learn that half the world had vanished into clouds of ash. Three years since he had stood shoulder to shoulder with talking animals and gods and super-soldiers and taken down the galaxy’s most fearsome tyrant.

Clint had never felt so tired.

In the wake of near destruction, he figured he deserved a vacation. A long fucking vacation. So he went to Greece, spent a year in a little apartment on the coastline. After that he spent some time with Natasha and Cap but the former was busy working with Okoye and T’Challa in Wakanda and the latter was catching up on the last seventy years with a former brainwashed assassin.

He said goodbye to Wakanda after only a few months. He travelled around for a bit, exploring places he’d always wanted to see or had seen but never got to spend any time in because he’d been on a mission. He taught archery at a renaissance fair for a summer which was weird and he had to wear tights, which was weirder. He went back to the farm for a bit. There was always things to do and for a while that was fine. He fixed the barn, replace the south fence, redid the kitchen, but staying there made him antsy.

So after a few months he went back to travelling and then suddenly it was the three year anniversary of the invasion and he was sitting at a little outdoor cafe in Prague. He watched the people going about their day, some hurrying, others taking their time. He pushed his sunglasses higher up on his nose, finishing off his latte. He didn’t really know what to do these days. He had no steady job, no real purpose. He’d never been one to stand idle and just drift through life.

_“Promiňte, pane.”_

He glanced up at the curly haired server, surprised to see her holding a small cup of espresso. “I didn’t order that,” he replied smoothly in Czech. “The gentleman over there did,” she explained, pointing a perfectly manicured finger over Clint’s shoulder. Clint turned and froze, feeling his glasses slip a little on his nose. A dark leather jacket stretched across familiar broad shoulders. The dark hair had more grey across the temples now but it was shaved short on the sides and left longer on the top like it always had been. Mirrored aviators covered what Clint knew to be flint brown eyes.

Clint’s breath caught in his throat.

 _“Děkuji,”_ he said, just barely remembering his manners. The girl gave him a knowing smile before moving away with a wink. Clint tucked a few bills under his empty mug and took the espresso as he crossed to the other side of the deck.

“Heard you helped defeat a god,” Brock said as Clint took a seat across the table from him. Clint looked him over cooly. The ugly burns had long since turned into scars, stretched tight across his cheekbone and jawline. Part of his eyebrow was missing, the eyelid below sagging a little. One ear was melted to the skin behind it, but all in all he still looked good.

“Heard you got blown up,” Clint replied calmly. He hadn’t blamed Wanda when it had happened, however much he’d wanted to. When Cap called, he’d answered and kept his feeling tucked safely away when he’d broken her out of the Avengers complex. It hadn’t mattered that Brock had been a traitor, had turned mercenary for the highest bidder. It still hadn’t made it hurt any less.

“Reports were exaggerated,” the man said with a shrug. “What are you doing here?” Clint asked sharply. “Just here for the coffee,” Brock replied calmly. The archer narrowed his eyes. “I’m not following you,” the man hurriedly insisted, licking his lips nervously. “I just promised Jack I’d look out for his sister. She lives here now.” Clint grimaced.

It had taken months for the government to sort through the rubble of the Triskelion, to sort through who had been true SHIELD and who had been HYDRA sleepers. It had taken a couple months before Clint had learned that Rollins had died and had also been HYDRA. It hadn’t been a big surprise that the man had been dirty, what with him and Brock being so close.

“It’s good to see you,” Brock murmured, eyes painfully ernest. Clint swallowed stiffly, jaw muscles twitching. “Yeah, okay,” the older man sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a card which he slid across the table with a scarred hand. “If case you ever want to get it touch,” he said softly, like he didn't believe Clitn could call. The chair made a horrid screech as Brock stood up.

“Just—,” slipped past Clint's lips before he could stop it.The other man froze, looking down at him with curious eyes. Clint grimaced. The fuck was he doing? If Nat were here she’d smack him so hard upside the head it’d fix his colourblindness. But fuck if he hadn’t spent the last seven years missing this man, against every single sensible nerve in his head.

He’d thought the man had been dead for the last two years and had mourned him bitterly. He’d spent so much time imagining what he’d say to Brock, if he had the chance. Now he had the chance and had no idea what to say.

“At least finish your coffee,” he settled on. Brock slowly sat back down, eyes soft as Clint caught the eyes of the curly hair server and silently asked for two more espressos. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one I put a lot of work into and I'm really happy with how it turned out so I hope you enjoyed reading it! Feedback is my fairy dust! 
> 
> Stay tuned for the next random one-shot. I seem to be going in a rare pairing trajectory. The next one's gonna be a Thor/Bucky!

**Author's Note:**

> Someone prompted this pairing and I delivered! Stay tuned and as always, feedback is my fairy dust!!


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